


Lights Out

by etherati



Category: Watchmen
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Roche, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherati/pseuds/etherati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter overexerts. Dan skips the h/c and goes right to being a perv.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Out

**Author's Note:**

> KM fill: Rorschach passes out during sex.

*

It's been a long night, but a _good_ night, and even these perversions feel more like a well-deserved reward than a corruption of their purpose right now. He can feel every bruise and its cause under the hot press of Daniel's hands – here a crowbar, there an unexpected and unblocked kick, elsewhere the whiplike thrash of a length of chain, burning in a line around his hip and snaking up towards his spine.

Every bright shock of pain is evidence of what they've done, the good they've accomplished, the punishment they've willingly taken on the city's behalf. His mind is hot and reeling with these thoughts as he slides two slicked fingers out of Daniel(he rolls his head back into the pillow and whines like a bereft whore, but Rorschach has seen real whores tonight and, for once, allows Walter to see the difference) and lines himself up, hitching one leg over his shoulder with an easy grace that shouldn't be possible for someone so constructed of bruises and angry welts, marked by fury in the dark.

And he hesitates on this brink, like he always does, the blunt head of his cock sliding around in the oil but not pushing in. Then Daniel tightens the hand on his shoulder and fingers are digging into a bruise there and the ache is forgiveness and permission and marks this as his right, as something he's _earned_.

He sinks inside in one slow, drawn-out motion, leaning into Daniel and rolling his hips up off the mattress; eliciting a sharp, wordless exhalation.

"Oh, god," Daniel mutters after a stillness, like _he_ always does, as if this is always new and unexplored – as if his climax brings amnesia along with its rippling waves of pleasure, leaving him to writhe and thrash like a virgin every single time. Heels press into Walter's back, graze the chain of narrow bruises wound there like a snake, make him hiss and his vision start to go grey around the edges–

And that's not entirely normal, but he ignores it, pushes it aside, because he's moving now and Daniel's still mumbling, a mindless litany of "Oh god, oh _god_," and Walter can only ever agree. He's losing himself already in the tight closeness of this thing, night after night, spiraling. It's in the way walls of muscle clench around him in rhythmic waves, deadening his vision; the way Daniel's body, usually so impenetrable to knives and fists and the violence of the city, is always so open to _him_, always so hot and welcoming, drawing him in.

(Daniel has confessed to him, words blearily uncertain in one aftermath or another: there is no one else alive who knows him from the inside like this. The thought makes even Rorschach weak and flustered, blindsiding him on patrol as he watches Nite Owl move against the lamplight. Walter never stood a chance.)

Walter's dizzy and lost, swaying, and something's not right but it's still not important. Somewhere along the line, he's stopped holding back, is rolling into Daniel's body with a force that would border on violence if it weren't for all the slick; is drowning in this, in what he's earned and what Daniel's earned, and they're the same thing in the end and... and he's...

Daniel's thighs, slippery with... sweat in his grip, and...

Daniel's hand on his neck, on... on his head, winding in through the hair and there are bruises _there_, too...

Why are there...

Through the narrowing tunnel of his vision, Daniel's face, unguarded and pulled apart and flushed with sex. It's debauched, and also beautiful – and also ephemeral, like the fog of breath on cold glass.

Then it's fading, being consumed by an inrushing of sparks, and maybe it was important after all because now he feels like he's falling

_(didn't dodge that last punch fast enough, did you)_

and there's a distant pulling and he can hear Daniel groan less happily than usual – and then nothing and nothing and nothing.

*

When the nothing recedes, he's not sure why he's on the floor beside the bed but it feels as natural a place as any to be, and he supposes he's been there a long time, one leg suspended up against the mattress where it's too tangled in the sheets to join the rest of him down below. It's all right, it's fine.

A quiet eternity passes, and he gradually becomes aware of the fact that his ankle hurts, and that he's upside down, which seems strange. Also that he's hard, achingly so, and in that, a thought or memory is trying to connect.

From somewhere above, the sound of Daniel's laughter, rich and thick but somehow slower than it should be. Time isn't quite cooperating. Hands are on him suddenly and he still doesn't know what's going on, but then Daniel's joined him on the floor, is straddling his hips.

"Knew we should have checked you for a concussion," Daniel mumbles, nuzzling into Walter's throat. He bites down just below his ear and Walter bucks instinctively against the weight, vision still spinning and strange.

More words, against his pulse, his jawline, his mouth. They're still earnest, still serious, for all that they slip along the edges of depravity. "You okay? Do I need to drag you the hospital?"

He shakes his head, willing the sparks away.

"Say it out loud," Daniel breathes into his ear, and it's so baldly sexual that it makes Walter's gut clench, makes him feel like he did the first time Daniel asked to be fucked, begged and wheedled and demanded until he'd finally given in, finally crossed that last line. It feels like he's being asked to do something obscene.

"No," he says anyway, throat vibrating against Daniel's lips. "I'm fine. No hospital."

"Bed rest, then," and here Daniel shifts over him, repositioning himself across straining hips. He presses his forehead to Walter's, and the contact feels like an electric shock, pulling him out of the last swirling grey eddies. "Stay on your back for a while."

And as Daniel sinks down around him, tight and slick and sweet, Walter's breath catches halfway up his throat and his fingers skate over the bruises patterning down Daniel's sides and he can't find any energy or voice or reason to argue.

*


End file.
